A FINANCIAL TRANSACTION
Scipio was washing clothes down at the creek. So much had happened to
him that day, so many and various had been the emotions through which
he had passed, that there was only one thing left him to do. He must
work. He dared not sit down and think. Hard physical labor was what he
required. And the rubbing out of the children's small clothes, and his
own somewhat tattered garments, became a sort of soothing drug which
quieted his troubled mind, and lulled his nerves into a temporary
quiescence. The children were with him, playing unconcernedly upon the
muddy banks of the creek, with all the usual childish zest for
anything so deliciously enticing and soft as liquid river mud.
Vada had forgotten her journey of that morning, it had quite
passed out of her little head in the usual way of such trifling
unpleasantnesses which go so frequently to make up the tally of
childhood's days. Jamie had no understanding of it. His Vada was with
him again, hectoring, guiding him as was her wont, and, in his babyish
way, he was satisfied.
As for Scipio he gave no sign of anything. He was concentrating all
his mental energies on the work in hand, thus endeavoring to shut out
memory which possessed nothing but pain for him. Every now and then a
quick, sidelong glance in the children's direction kept him informed
of their doings and safety, otherwise his eyes were rarely raised from
the iron bath, filled to the brim with its frothing suds.
Striding down the slope from the hut where he had come in search of
Scipio, this was the picture Wild Bill discovered. The little
yellow-headed man was standing in the midst of a small clearing in the
bushes, a clearing long since made for the purposes of his wife's
weekly wash. His back was turned, and his small figure was bowed over
the tub in front of him. Every bush around him was decorated with
clothes laid out on their leafy surfaces, where the sun could best
operate its hygienic drying process. He saw the bobbing heads of the
mudlarking children a few yards away where the low cut-bank hid their
small bodies from view. And somehow an unusual pity stirred his hard,
world-worn heart.
And yet no one could have called him a sentimental man. At least, no
one who knew his method of life. How would it be possible to gild a
man with humane leanings who would sit in to a game at poker, and, if
chance came his way, take from any opponent his last cent of money,
even if he knew that a wife and children could be reduced to
starvation thereby? How could a kindliness of purpose be read into the
acts of a man who would have no scruple in taking life, under
provocation, without the least mercy or qualm of conscience? He
displayed no tenderness, he hated what he considered such weakness. It
was his studied practice to avoid showing consideration for others,
and he would have bitterly resented those who considered him. He
preferred that his attitude towards the world should be one of
unyielding selfishness. Such was the game of life as he understood
it.
Yes, honestly enough, he hated sentiment, and for this very reason he
cursed himself bitterly that such a feeling as he now experienced
should so disturb him. He hurried down the slope a shade quicker than
there was any necessity for. And it was as though he were endeavoring
to outstrip the feelings which pursued him.
Scipio heard him coming, and glanced round quickly. When he beheld his
visitor he nodded a greeting and continued his work. In his heart was
a curious feeling towards the gambler. He could not have described it.
It was too complicated. He liked Wild Bill. He felt that for some
indefinite reason he was his friend. Yet he resented him, too. He did
not know he resented him. Only he felt that this man dominated him,
and he was forced to obey him against his will. At sight of him his
mind went back to the events of that morning. He thought of Bill's
promise, and a curious excitement stirred within him. He wondered now
what this visit portended.
For once the gambler did not display his usual readiness. He did not
speak for some moments, but took up a position whence he could see the
children at their play, and best watch the little washerman, on whom
he intended to thrust a proposition that had been revolving in his
mind some time. He chewed his tobacco steadily, while his expression
went through many changes. At last he drew his shaggy brows together
and eyed his victim with shrewd suspicion.
"Say, you're kind o' smart, ain't you?" he demanded harshly.
The other looked up with a start, and his mildly inquiring glance
should have convinced the most skeptical to the contrary. But
apparently it had no such effect on his visitor.
"I'd never ha' tho't it," Bill went on coldly. "To look at you one 'ud
sure think you was that simple a babby could fool you. Howsum," he
sighed, "I don't guess you ken never rightly tell."
A flush began to warm Scipio's cheeks. He couldn't understand. He
wondered hard, vainly endeavoring to grasp wherein he had offended.
"I--I don't get you," he said, in a bewildered fashion, dropping the
garment he was washing back into the soapsuds.
Bill's expression underwent another change as he caught at the words.
"You don't get me?" he said ironically. "You don't get me?" Then he
shrugged as though he was not angry, but merely deplored the other's
unsuspected cunning. "You can't strike it rich an' guess you're goin'
to blind folks. I'd say it needs every sort of a man to do that around
these parts."
Scipio gasped. He had no other feeling than blank astonishment.
"I ain't struck it rich," he protested.
And his denial was received with a forced peal of laughter.
"Say, you're a heap shrewd," cried Bill, when his laugh had subsided.
"I'd say you're jest about slick. Gee! Wal, I can't blame you any fer
holdin' your face shut. Ther's a mint o' dollars ken drop out of a
feller's mouth through an unnatteral openin'. Ef you'd got busy
gassin', it's a million dollar bet all the folks around this lay-out
'ud be chasin' you clear to death. Say, it's right, though? There's
chunks of it stickin' right out, fine, yaller, dandy gold. An' the
quartz bank cuttin' down wider an' wider?"
But Scipio shook his head. His bewilderment had gone, and in place of
it was sad conviction.
"Not yet," he said. "Not yet. I ain't seen it, anyway. I sure think
there's gold in plenty on that claim. I know there is," he added, with
unusual force, his pulses beginning to quicken, and a sudden hope
stirring. Bill's accusation was aiding the effect. "But it ain't on
the surface. It sure ain't."
He stood wondering, all his washing forgotten in this newly raised
hope so subtly stirred by the gambler. Had someone else discovered
what he had missed for so long? He hadn't been near his claim for some
days. Had someone--?
"Who says about the gold?" he demanded, with sudden inspiration.
"The folks."
The gambler passed the point without committing himself.
Scipio shook his head, puzzling. Something must surely have
transpired, and yet--
"You got me beat, Bill. You have, sure." The smile that accompanied
his words was good to see. But somehow the gambler found the far
horizon of more interest just then.
"You're a wide one all right," he said thoughtfully. "There's no
gettin' upsides with you. Give me them quiet, simple sort o' fellers
every time. They got the gas machine beat so far you couldn't locate
him with a forty-foot microscope. Gee!" He chuckled, and turned again
to contemplate his companion, much as he would a newly discovered
wonder of the world.
But poor Scipio was really becoming distressed. He hoped, merely
because the other forced him to hope, by his own evident sincerity.
But the charge of shrewdness, of conspiring to keep a secret he had
never possessed, worried him.
"I take my oath I don't know a thing, Bill," he declared earnestly. "I
sure don't. You've got to believe me, because I can't say more. I seen
my claim days back, an' I hadn't a color. I ain't seen it since.
That's fact."
It was strange to see how readily the disbelief died out of the
other's face. It was almost magical. It was as though his previous
expression had been nothing but acting and his fresh attitude the
result of studied preparation.
"Well, Zip," he said seriously, almost dejectedly, "if you put it that
way, I sure got to b'lieve you. But it's queer. It sure is. There's
folks ready to swear ther's rich gold on your claim, an' I'll tell you
right here I come along to git in on it. Y'see, I'm a bizness man, an'
I don't figger to git a crop o' weeds growin' around my feet. I sez to
myself, I sez, directly I heerd tell, 'Here's Zip with an elegant
patch o' pay dirt, an' here am I with a wad of bills handy, which I'd
sure like to turn over some.' Then I sez--I want you to understand
jest how I thought--I sez,'Mebbe I've kind o' bin useful to Zip.
Helped him out some, when he was fixed awkward.' You see, it ain't my
way to do things for nothing. An' I do allow I bin useful to you.
Well, I thought o' these things, so I come along right smart to get in
on the plum. Sez I, 'Zip, bein' under obligation to me some, mebbe
he'll let me buy ha'f share in his claim,' me handin' him a thousand
dollars. It 'ud be a spot cash deal, an' me puttin' in a feller to
work--an' see things right fer me--why, I guess there'd be no chance
o' you gettin' gay--an' fakin' the output. See? I don't guess you're
on the crook, but in bizness a feller don't take chances. Y'see I'm
pretty bright when it gits to bizness, an', anyway, I don't stand fer
no play o' that kind. Get me?"
The gambler's manner was wholly severe as he explained his proposition,
and impressed his views of business. Scipio listened without the
slightest umbrage. He saw nothing wrong, nothing unfriendly in the
precautions the other had intended to take. As a matter of fact, the
one thing that concerned him was the disappointment he must cause him.
"There's nothing like straight talk, Bill," he said, cordially. "I
allus like straight talk. You kind of know just where you are then.
There's not a doubt you've been real good to me," he went on, with
evident feeling, "and I'll never be able to forget it--never. I tell
you right here, if there was anything in the world I could do in
return, I'd do it."
He smiled quaintly and pushed his stubby fingers through his sparse
hair in his most helpless manner.
"If there was gold on my claim, I'd let you in all you need, and I
wouldn't want your dollars. Dollars? No, Bill, I don't want dollars
for doing anything for you. I sure don't. I mean that. Maybe you'll
understand, y'see I'm not a business man--never was."
The gambler averted his eyes. He could not look into the other's face
so shining with honesty and gratitude.
"But there ain't no gold found on that claim yet," Scipio went on.
"Leastways, not that I know of, so what's the use deceivin' you? An'
dollars, why, there's no question of 'em between us. You can stand in
ha'f my claim, Bill, an' welcome, but you ain't going to pay me
dollars for gold that ain't been found. Yes, you're sure welcome to
ha'f my claim, an' you ken set a man working for you. I'll not say but
I'll be glad of the help. But don't make no mistake, gold ain't been
found, as far as I know, an' there may be none there, so I'd be glad
if you don't risk a lot of dollars in the work."
The gambler felt mean as he listened to the quiet words ringing with
such simple honesty. Time and again his beady eyes lifted to the
steady blue ones, only to drop quickly before their fearless
sincerity. He stirred irritably, and a hot impatience with himself
drove him so that the moment Scipio finished speaking he broke out at
once.
"Here," he cried, without the least gentleness, "you're talkin' a heap
o' foolishness. I'm a bizness man offerin' a bizness proposition. I
don't want nuthin' given. I'm out to make a deal. You say there's no
gold there. Wal, I say there sure is. That bein' so I'd be a low down
skunk takin' ha'f your claim fer nix, jest because you guess you owe
me things--which I 'low you sure do, speakin' plain. I got a thousand
dollars right here,"--he pulled out a packet of bills from his hip
pocket, and held them up for the other's inspection--"an' them dollars
says ther's gold on your claim. An' I'm yearnin' to touch ha'f that
gold. But I'm takin' no chances. I want it all wrote down reg'lar so
folks can't say I sneaked around you, an' got it for nix. Gee, I'd
look mighty small if you turned around on me afterwards. No, sir, you
don't get me that way. I'm only soft around my teeth. If you're the
man I take you for, if you're honest as you're guessin', if you feel
you want to pay me fer anything I done for you, why, cut the gas an'
take my dollars' an' I'll get the papers made out by a Spawn City
lawyer. They're all that crooked they couldn't walk a chalk-line, but
I guess they know how to bind a feller good an' tight, an' I'll see
they bind you up so ther' won't be no room for fool tricks. That's
bizness."
Scipio shook his head. And Bill flushed angrily.
"It ain't square," the little man protested. "Maybe you'll lose your
money."
"That's up to me," the gambler began fiercely. Then he checked
himself, and suddenly became quite grieved. "Wal, Zip, I wouldn't ha'
b'lieved it. I sure wouldn't. But ther'--life's jest self. It's all
self. You're like all the rest. I've been chasin' a patch o' good pay
dirt ever since I bin around Sufferin' Creek, an' it's only now I've
found one to suit me. I sure thought you'd let me in on it. I sure
did. Howsum, you won't. You want it all yourself. Wall, go ahead. An'
you needn't worry about what I told you this morning. My word goes
every time. This ain't going to make no difference. I'm not goin' to
squeal on that jest because you won't 'blige me."
He made as though to return his dollars to his pocket. He had turned
away, but his shrewd eyes held his companion in their focus. He saw
the flush of shame on Scipio's face. He saw him open his mouth to
speak. Then he saw it shut as he left his tub and came towards him.
Bill waited, his cunning telling him to keep up his pretense. Scipio
did not pause till he laid a hand on his arm, and his mild eyes were
looking up into his keen, hard face.
"Bill," he said, "you can have ha'f my claim and--and I'll take your
dollars. I jest didn't guess I was bein' selfish about it--I didn't,
truth. I was thinkin' o' you. I was thinkin' you might lose your
bills. Y'see, I haven't had the best of luck--I--"
But the gambler's face was a study as he pushed his hand off and
turned on him. There was a fine struggle going on in his manner
between the harshness he wished to display and the glad triumph he
really felt.
"Don't slob," he cried. "Here's the bills. Stuff 'em right down in
your dip. Ha'f that claim is mine, an' I'll have the papers wrote
reg'lar. I didn't think you was mean, an' I'm glad you ain't."
Scipio took the money reluctantly enough, and pushed it into his
pocket with a sigh. But Bill had had enough of the matter. He turned
to go, moving hastily. Then, of a sudden, he remembered. Thrusting his
hand into a side pocket of his jacket he produced a paper parcel.
"Say, Zip, I come nigh forgettin'," he cried cheerfully. "The
hash-slinger down at Minky's ast me to hand you this. It's for the
kiddies. It's candy. I'd say she's sweet on your kiddies. She said I
wasn't to let you know she'd sent 'em. So you ken jest kep your face
closed. So long."
He hurried away like a man ashamed. Scipio had such a way of looking
into his eyes. But once out of sight he slackened his pace. And
presently a smile crept into his small eyes, that set them twinkling.
"Guess I'm every kind of a fule," he muttered. "A thousand dollars!
Gee! An' ther' ain't gold within a mile of the doggone claim--'cep'
when Zip's ther'," he added thoughtfully.